


Maybe It's Much Too Early in the Game

by wellthatsood



Category: Boardwalk Empire
Genre: Canon Timeline, Developing Relationship, Drinking & Talking, Holidays, Insecurity, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 03:12:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13538463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: New Year's, 1920–1921; a quiet night in doesn't go as planned, as alcohol and early-relationship insecurities prove an unfortunate combination.





	Maybe It's Much Too Early in the Game

**Author's Note:**

> I had “What Are You Doing New Year’s Eve?” stuck in my head all December and then this happened (albeit slightly delayed, because those aforementioned holidays kept me busy) [[on tumblr](http://goatsandgangsters.tumblr.com/post/170364183834/maybe-its-much-too-early-in-the-game)]

_Maybe I'm crazy to suppose_  
_I'd ever be the one you chose_  
_Out of a thousand invitations  
_ _You received_

 

“You got any plans for New Year’s?” 

“New Year’s, Charlie?” 

It was late; the two of them were holed up in the office, only the one lamp on the desk illuminating a halo of golden light around them, shadows skirting the periphery of the room across the peeling wallpaper. There had been a few players earlier, but with the snowstorm, it seemed few were keen to venture out. The last patrons had left about an hour ago, their truncated take for the day had been counted out, and now it was just the pair of them, lingering over their cigarettes, as unenthusiastic about trudging home through the snow as the players had been to come in at all. 

Charlie chuckled, quiet, and cast his eyes downward—in that way of his, ducking his head to hide the smile, but Meyer could still see the faint creases in the corners of his eyes and the gleam of a grin under his mop of hair. It was far too distracting. “’21, you believe it?”

Meyer smirked, reaching across the desk to tap ash into a near-full dish. “Time’s got a funny way of doing that. Progressing numerically and all,” he teased without any real bite. He just wanted to watch Charlie smile again.

“But whaddya think, I mean? Got anything on that agenda of yours?” Charlie asked, taking a swipe at Meyer’s front pocket, his notebook protruding over the top. 

“It’s hardly a social calendar, Charlie. Who do I see besides—well, you and Benny? Frank, when we can entice him away from the missus. Anyway, _New Year’s_ , Charlie?” he asked with a sideways glance; everyone liked to drink on holidays, New Year’s especially. And now that the government said they couldn’t, they wanted to do it even more. Meyer had been counting on a full schedule from that alone—surely something at AR’s behest would fill their night. 

“Yeah, I heard of it,” Charlie said. “It’s when you get soused with people you— _you know._ Important people. Ones you like.”

“No, that’s what _other_ people do. We turn a profit off making sure everyone else gets nice and soused.” 

“But can’t somebody else look out for that? You know, just for a night? Frank can keep an eye on things.” There was something almost agitated in his voice, a kind of nervous urgency and a very obvious eyebrow crease. It wasn’t like Charlie to shirk away from a profit. 

Meyer frowned, suspicious. “Why, what plans do _you_ have for New Year’s?” 

“None,” he said, too fast. Then—hesitating—he added, “See, that’s why I was axin’, in case you and me… we could… I just thought it’d be a good time, is all. Spendin’ it with you, I mean. If you want,” he finished in a mumble. 

“I assume you don’t mean spending it with me while distributing hooch to every party from Manhattan to the ends of Long Island?” 

Charlie tilted his head, considering. “See, problem is, they got other people there…” 

“Generally, yes. Unless it’s a really terrible party.” 

Charlie snorted and Meyer couldn’t help but smile. Laughter looked good on him. It seemed to flow as naturally as his own breath, whenever they talked like this. 

“And other people means I can’t do too much of this—”

Even after a few months together, it still felt so new, such a shock, whenever Charlie leaned forward, his lips more gentle than Meyer could have imagined— _and he had imagined_ —as they pressed against his own. He froze, for just a moment, eyes shut, feeling Charlie’s lips, until his mind caught up and his hands caught Charlie’s lapel—some part of him always intent to make sure Charlie didn’t pull away.

“So what do you propose?” Meyer asked, breathless even after such a chaste kiss, his fingers still tight on Charlie’s jacket and their faces close enough that he could feel Charlie’s breath against his cheek. He still hadn’t remembered to open his eyes. 

“Propose? Don’t rush things, Little Man, it’s only been a few months.” And Meyer didn’t even need to open his eyes to know what that stupid, self-satisfied grin looked like. He laughed, a little surprised, playfully pressing his hand into Charlie’s chest as a half-hearted shove. 

“For New Year’s, shtik drek,” he said, with fondness. 

“You, me, and a bottle of hooch?” Charlie was giving him that look—that charming, owlish stare, with its mingled mischief and affection. It was a hard look to say no to—or look away _from_. 

Clearing his throat a little, Meyer blinked a few times at the wall behind him. “Charlie, that’s not much different from the whole ‘distribution’ arrangement,” he chided, if only to combat the heat rising in his face. “I believe hooch was already on the agenda.” 

“ _And_ ,” Charlie pressed on, cutting over him, “ _Just_ the two of us. So we can…” He slipped his hand onto Meyer’s knee and gave a little squeeze, glancing out at the glass window separating their office from the game. The place was deserted, but Charlie kept staring off into the darkness all the same, cigarette hovering by his lips. “I like when it’s just the two of us, is all,” he mumbled, without looking at him, though his thumb rubbed a small circle against the outside of Meyer’s leg. 

A small eternity seemed to pass between those words from Charlie’s lips and Meyer managing to push the words “me too” out of his own. Charlie didn’t seem to notice; he just smiled into the shadows, hand still on Meyer’s leg. 

“Do you—uh—is that how you usually spend New Year’s?” Meyer asked, despite himself. Better to keep the moment going, instead of being stupid and jealous, but Charlie was so charming, and surely one day soon, he’d wake up or grow tired or—

“I think you would’a been shocked, if I was kissin’ you last year.” He smiled, but he wore genuine confusion in the knit of his brows all the same. 

“Shocked’s not the word I would use. You could go back… a good few years before you hit that point,” Meyer muttered, feeling the need to say it while still not wanting it to be heard. But of course, Charlie did. And he heard a lot more than that, too—intuiting, as he often did, what was just beneath Meyer’s surface.

“Meyer,” he said, with the threat of heaviness to follow. “I wanna spend New Year’s with you. Nobody else.” 

Meyer smiled, pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, and accepted. Though it wasn’t without a sinking sort of feeling that Charlie hadn’t answered his question. 

 

* * *

 

They missed midnight. Or rather, they were too preoccupied to notice the minimal movement of the clock on Charlie’s dresser, a fraction of a twitch into the upright position that marked momentous change for everyone up and down the coast. 

Meyer wasn’t about to complain, though. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d gladly miss anything under the sun—or stars, for that matter—in favor of being wrapped up in Charlie’s arms, hot breath passing between them, firms hands on his back, and their lips eager, insistent. 

They stayed clothed that night. They didn’t, always—they had done more before, already, but there was still so much newness. Sometimes it was better this way, jackets and ties discarded, shirt buttons thrown open, and that was that. Meyer thought so, anyway. He didn’t know about Charlie. If it wasn’t enough, he hadn’t said anything, but Meyer wondered—

“Mm shit,” Charlie mumbled into Meyer’s neck. “Happy New Year.” 

Meyer extricated one hand from around Charlie’s waist, so that he could palm for his watch on Charlie’s end table. “Try 12:40,” he said, squinting through the darkness at the numbers. 

Charlie chuckled—hot breath against Meyer’s pulse point—and arched his back to stretch, languid and satisfied. Meyer tried to hide the way his breath hitched as Charlie’s thigh pressed against him; with how tangled up they were in one another, it was impossible to avoid friction at every shift. 

“Guess we got a little distracted.” Charlie’s voice was husky and warm; Meyer would have been content to drift off like that and call it a night, but Charlie was already wriggling out of his grasp and sitting up. “Another drink?” 

He seemed _mostly_ steady on his feet as he set off for the kitchen. Meyer blinked after him; it was chilly without Charlie’s body pressed to his. He sat up, the room swam a little, but he followed Charlie all the same, even if his knees felt a little wobbly and foreign, as if they weren’t his at all. 

There was another full glass waiting for him at the table, Charlie in the chair opposite, wearing a lazy, content smile and lighting a cigarette. Despite the slight December—no, _January_ —draft seeping through the windows, he looked so comfortable, his sleeves sloppily pushed above the elbows, the collar of his shirt open and _very_ rumpled, legs outstretched towards Meyer as he slumped in his chair. His hair was beyond askew. 

“Happy New Year, huh?” he said, tilting his glass towards Meyer in a half-toast.

Meyer dropped into his chair and returned the gesture, throwing back a large gulp that didn’t go down as smooth as it had on thefirst drink, or even the second. Between the alcohol and a whole lot of kissing and wandering hands, Meyer felt a little lightheaded. “It’s 12:43 now,” he replied, thinking after that it wasn’t the proper response. It seemed logical—factual, even—in his head, but it sounded wrong out loud. 

Charlie looked at him a little funny, so it probably wasn’t the right thing to say. “12:43 in _1921_ ,” he pointed out. “And no better company, ain’t that right?” 

He had that cheeky, flirtatious grin, and his hair was ruffled, and despite the fact that his apartment was drafty, there still seemed to be a warm glow in his face—whether from the booze or their kissing, Meyer did not know. But he was handsome, even more than usual. He was charming, and—and _handsome_ , and—“Sure, Charlie,” he mumbled, flatter than stale beer, looking down at his hands. 

“What’s the matter, Little Man? You think I’m lyin’?” Charlie said in that teasing way, like when they were kids and Meyer was being stand-offish and Charlie would wrap a warm arm across his shoulder and chide him until he chipped some small dent in Meyer’s unaffected exterior. “I like bein’ with you, I mean it,” he chuckled. 

“For now.” The words tumbled out in a distant kind of way, such that he could hardly be certain he’d said them at all. 

Charlie sat up. “What’s that s’posed to mean?” 

The rush in his head told Meyer that he got to his feet. He turned away, walking without destination. “I won’t hold it against you, I really won’t. I’ll understand, and we can keep doing business, and—and it’ll be fine, Charlie. It will,” he said in a rush. He was working to convince somebody, but _who_ was the question. 

“The _fuck’s_ that supposed to mean?” Charlie sounded angry. Maybe hurt. Probably not. 

Meyer waved a drunken hand, shrugging. He leaned against the wall of Charlie’s kitchen, sliding down a little until his legs locked in place. “Just facts is all. Odds. Statistical—statistical _probability_.” 

He wouldn’t look up, but he could see Charlie’s feet moving back and forth across the wood floor, abrupt starts and stops and turns, punctuated by the occasional attempt at a sentence that lapsed back into silence. Finally, Charlie spat, “What the fuck d’you think of me?” 

“What?” Meyer asked. He didn’t see what that had to do with anything—besides, wasn’t it obvious? 

“D’you think I don’t—if there’s somethin’ I—” He tried a few more times, growing more agitated with every failed start to a sentence. “Am I doin’ it wrong? That you think I don’t want this?”

Somewhere, Meyer thought, this had gone entirely off the rails. Charlie was missing the point. It was really very straightforward, not hard to see at all. Matter-of-factly, he said, “Of course that’s not it at all, Charlie. Besides, you seem to know what you’re doing,” he said, and it sounded bitter. It wasn’t supposed to be bitter. He was only saying the facts. 

Charlie scoffed. “Like fuck I do.” And when Meyer raised an eyebrow in disbelief, he added, “It’s all—shit’s all different. You know, with you.” 

“Because I’m not a pretty broad?” 

“No, ‘cause you— _you know._ ” To his feet, he finished, “Matter…” 

Well, that was certainly a difficult line to argue with. Meyer swallowed, glancing down at the uneven floorboards. His shoes were still in Charlie’s bedroom, next to the bed, and Meyer downed more of his drink. “You’re approaching this all wrong,” he mumbled, like he was explaining an idea for how they would move their business forward. “It’s nothing that you… have or haven’t done. Just that you’re… I’m not… Like I said, I won’t blame you. When you get tired.” 

_Because he wasn’t good enough, didn’t giggle and toss his hair at Charlie’s jokes like Meyer knew all the girls must have, didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know how to say things, didn’t even know what he was supposed to say, didn’t—_

Charlie laughed, an incredulous, hollow sound. “You’re so fuckin’ stupid, you know that?”

“I beg your pardon?” He may have had some shortcomings liable to drive Charlie away sooner or later, but _stupidity_ was not among them, thank you very much. The alcohol and insecurity may have taken some of his pride, but certainly not all of it. 

“You got all those fuckin’ brains, up there in your head, and you’re thinkin’ all those thoughts all day long, but god Meyer, you’re fuckin’ stupid.” Charlie shook his head, gesturing at the ceiling and running a hand through his hair. He laughed, agitated and incredulous. “How come you’re so smart but your brain don’t wanna see any kinda sense?” 

“I think I’m being perfectly rational,” Meyer grumbled. 

“I think you had too much of that,” Charlie countered, plucking the half-empty glass out of his hands. In a normal state, Meyer would have grabbed it right back, but by the time he reached for it, Charlie was out of range. 

“I’m not just sayin’ this because I’m drunk, you know,” Meyer protested. He wanted it known. He wasn’t that drunk. He had to have some pride. He wasn’t just drunk. 

Charlie sighed. “That’s kinda the problem, ain’t it, Little Man?” There were hands around his waist. They were Charlie’s. The warm weight atop his head, the hot breath against his scalp, that was probably Charlie, too. “Mey…” He paused, then said, far too tired, “Let’s go to bed, huh? It’ll—we don’t gotta do this. Not tonight.”

The hands on his waist were guiding him, and Meyer let himself be pulled along like a doll. He pressed his shoulder into Charlie’s side as they made their way gingerly across the floor. He was so very warm and much more upright— _upstanding_ , even, he thought, and almost chuckled at the irony, then thought better of it. “I’m not that drunk,” he muttered. He could _mostly_ walk on his own; it was just nice leaning on Charlie, that was all. 

Before long, the walls started moving—they were going upwards and suddenly, Meyer found himself sitting on the bed. Though it seemed he was the one moving, not the walls, as Charlie lowered him back against the headboard. The sheets around him were still rumpled and Meyer ran a hand over them.

Charlie was above him, looking down at him without looking _at_ him. Some part of that bothered Meyer. His curls were still a mess, but the warmth had gone from his cheeks. He looked tired; he was still very pretty.

Charlie’s hand stroked along his cheek, those dark eyes staring down at him. Meyer blinked blearily up and leaned into his palm. There was a not-so-good feeling deep in his gut. It definitely wasn’t the alcohol threatening its way back up, and it wasn’t the same searing jealousy as before. That was painful, but there was a comfort in it—a hot, white heat of pain, but a feeling of it all the same. This just felt empty, hollow, an emotional hangover all its own. Meyer sighed. “Charlie, I—” 

“—I left your drink in the other room,” he interrupted and pulled away, turning his back. 

“What?” Meyer said, blankly, but Charlie left. Only for a moment, though, as he reappeared a second later with the glass in his hands. “Thanks,” Meyer mumbled, extending his hand for it. 

Charlie ignored him; he downed the rest of Meyer’s drink in one gulp, gasping a little at the burn in his throat. He set the empty glass down—hard—on the nightstand, right next to Meyer’s lighter. 

Oh. Meyer’s things. On Charlie’s nightstand. Charlie wasn’t looking at him—Meyer could feel that he wasn’t—but all Meyer could do was stare at these little objects, sitting here on Charlie’s nightstand, in Charlie’s bedroom. It was his shoes next to the bed, his tie set aside in a careful coil. _You gonna take all night with that,_ Charlie’d teased earlier, as they fumbled into bed, peppering kisses with laughter and teasing one another as they’d always done—just in much closer proximity. 

Meyer remained transfixed by the long shadows thrown by the everyday objects that took on extra meaning in Charlie’s bedroom, a humble still-life display that meant god-knows-what. 

“Look, Mey, I—” 

“You don’t have to.”

The bed sagged beside him and there was a warm weight resting on his knee. “There’s nobody else that—I don’t wanna be spendin’ New Year’s with nobody else, you got that? And every other the night of the year, too. And—and not just this year, neither, I mean any of the years that… might come after,” he finished, a little meek and fumbling. 

Meyer half-laughed, glancing at Charlie for just a moment. “I think ’22 is _probably_ going to come next,” he teased.

“If you say so,” he chuckled, still tentative. “You’re the one that’s got that clever head for numbers.” 

“I thought you said I was stupid?”

Charlie shrugged. “Alright, well… You kinda are.” 

Meyer blinked, stared. “Say that again to my face and there won’t be a 1922, Charlie.”

“Hey, all I’m sayin’ is, if you don’t know…” He held up his hands in surrender, but trailed off, searching for the words. He sighed, and with self-incrimination, voice low, he said, “I guess you don’t know, huh?” 

“Know what?” 

He shifted, withdrawing his hand as he tapped his knuckles against the space between them, staring at the far wall. “That I want this— _you_ —more than I ever wanted… anythin’ else. Or anybody.”

“Oh,” Meyer said, the words swimming in his head. Charlie winced, and Meyer realized that ranked up there for _worst responses_ , but it was hard to speak, like the air had been squeezed out of him. Quickly, he tacked on, “You mean that?” His throat felt dry; he glanced at Charlie, who licked his lips and looked down at his hands. 

“Wouldn’t’a said it otherwise…” he muttered. “Besides, I’m no whizz with words.” 

Meyer snorted and Charlie looked at him, brows drawn down in confusion. “Says the single most charming person in the whole of… Manhattan,” Meyer scoffed, with the threat of a grin. 

Charlie perked up. He tried to hide it, but Meyer could see the momentary surprise, the flash of a smile he tried to hide. “What, just Manhattan?” he said, feigning insult. 

“It’s a conservative estimate,” Meyer explained, deadpan. “I didn’t want to be too generous, just in case we find someone more charming in another borough. Though, I’ve been to Brooklyn and I don’t think that’s likely, so it might be fair to say—most charming person in perhaps the state?” 

“East coast?” 

“Don’t push it.” 

They both chuckled and lapsed into a silence that felt much more comfortable. Meyer exhaled and leaned into Charlie, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “So, whaddya think? This gonna be our year?” 

Meyer closed his eyes and hummed, a heavy contentment mingling with the alcohol and with the way Charlie’s fingers trailed up and down his arm. The scent of his cologne clung to the soft skin of his warm neck and Meyer inhaled deeply. “ _Every_ year is gonna be our year, Charlie.”

“So long as I got you, it will be.” 


End file.
